Shame
by C. Ex Machina
Summary: This fic was inspired by the Stabbing Westward song of the same name.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Shame (Inspired by "Shame" by Stabbing Westward)  
Author: Mrs. Shinigami  
Archive: This one  
Pairings: Read and see  
Warnings: Angst and Yaoi  
  
(Ah. . .such a lovely day for a walk.)  
Schuldig strolled leisurely down the sidewalk. The city was buzzing with life. The sky was power blue and limitless, not a cloud marred it. The sun shone benevolently down upon the people walking the city's blocks. Schuldig's long legs flexed and in a relaxed manner as he turned his face towards the sky. Coming to a bench along the sidewalk, Schuldig sat down. He outstretched his arms over his head and rested them along the tops of the bench. Sighing contentedly, he flicked the wrist of his expensive white suit jacket to reveal a silver wrist watch. Emerald eyes widened with pleasure.  
(Time for the fireworks.)  
Turning part-way to his right side, he faced an industrial office building on the corner, completely covered in mirrored windows. Grabbing the sunglasses that rested in his headband, he put them on. Seconds later, a earth shaking rumble shook the ground. Every single window in the building shattered forth, spraying glittering shards of glass. Fire erupted from the openings left by the shattered windows. People started shouting and screaming in disbelief and horror. Cars rear ended parked cars as people craned their necks to see the gutted building. Babies cried, mothers screamed, and children just gaped in awe. Chaos ran rampant in the streets.  
Schuldig simply smiled. Slipping a hand in his jacket pocket, he pulled out a strawberry Blow Pop. Deftly unwrapping it with his teeth, he stuck it in his mouth, leaving the stick to stick out cockily on the right side of his smiling mouth.   
(This is bliss.)  
A ringing sound started him from his reverie. Frowning slightly, he reached to his inner pocket and pulled out a silver cell phone. He held it to his ear. "This is Schuldig. . .speak to me."  
"You didn't have to cause that much damage. That was totally unnecessary." The voice was emotionless and flat.  
"Ah, Crawford. How does you day fare?"  
"An idle chat is also inefficient. Come back now. Your work for today is finished."  
The line clicked dead. Schuldig frowned into the phone. That man can be so frigid. Heaving a mighty sigh and running a hand through his flame colored tresses, Schuldig got off the bench and went to see his boss. 


	2. 

  
The chair was hard and cold. Schuldig winced and squirmed uncomfortably in the mahogany chair he was ordered to sit it.  
The room was also cold. The lone desk Schuldig sat at was made of the finest black marble, as was the floor. The walls looked like mahogany as well. The ceiling arched up like a cathedral and made every sound made in that room echo. This office was much like Crawford himself, Schuldig thought; dark, cold, and empty.  
The large double doors at the front of the room creaked open. Crawford walked in, his stride long, purposeful, non-hesitant. He came to the chair diagonal from Schuldig. As always, Crawford was impeccably dressed. A cream colored Gucci suit with a green vest, light blue shirt and orange tie. His hands were well washed, even the nails were carefully manicured. His face was flawless, smooth lips that bearly smiled, exotic autumn brown eyes that observed the world from behind a pair of designer glasses. The only imperfection in this man was his hair. Thick black tresses fell untamed about his face. It may have started out fixed in the beginning of the day, but through constant, tugging, and having his own fingers run through it almost constantly, it became unruly. Schuldig raised a pair of mental eyebrows. Interesting.  
Crawford opened the plain black leather briefcase he brought with him. He put his hands together. "I have to talk to you about your performance in these past couple of months, Schuldig." His voice resonated through the empty room. "The results are satisfactory, but the means. . ."  
Crawford pulled out a folder from the briefcase. Opening it, he searched about for a certain paper. Schuldig noticed as he glanced over it, Crawford starting chewing at his lower lip. Finding a page, he slid it across the table at Schuldig. "Read it."  
Schuldig picked it up and read the newspaper clipping that had been pasted to it. "FOUR PEOPLE DIE IN BOMB BLAST"  
Schuldig smiled to himself. As he skimmed through the article, he folded down the edge of the paper. Crawford was busy in the folder again, the right corner of his lip in his mouth, and hand ran through his hair, momentarily reveling a high proud forehead and widow's peak. As his hand left the hair, silken black swept forward to his face again.  
(Hmmm. . .So nervous for one so collected. I wonder. . .)  
Schuldig kept the ruse of reading. Then he started to reach his mind out to Crawford's, slowly, as so not to scare. The shock of his invading presence has killed men. It can be like a knife. If eased in smoothly with our jerks or starts, it won't startle. If it's jabbed in, it can kill or cause serious damage.  
Crawford stopped rummaging through the folder. His eyes became somewhat glassy. "Stop it, Schuldig." His voice was softer, more far away.  
(Damn, he felt me. No matter, what's in here?)  
Crawford's eyes, widened. Orbs like brown glass shone in what little light was in the room. His mouth moved, but refused to work. A squeak of voice came out, ". . .Schul. . .Nnnnoooo."  
Schuldig put down the paper he was reading and looked directly at Crawford. His verdant eyes narrowed in concentration and seemed to glow with a catlike intensity. A smile caressed his lips.  
(What the hell are you hiding from me? No one has ever resisted as hard as you)  
Schuldig filtered through thought, emotion, and mindscape. Crawford's mind knew it was being invaded by him, and it tried to push him out.  
(Your resistance is like a rare spice, Crawford, and I relish it.)  
Quite suddenly, Schuldig felt catapulted out of Crawford's mind. Suddenly, up came a mental block so strong, it caught him off guard and nearly caused him to fall over physically.  
Crawford's eyes went from glassy to livid. Electricity pulsed through the air in that small room. Reaching over the table with lightening speed, Crawford punched Schuldig in the jaw. "Look here Telepath. If you EVER do that again, I'll order a lobotomy for you. . .or better yet, I'll do it my self."  
Turning on his heel, Crawford quickly walked out of the room, leaving behind his briefcase.  
Schuldig's tongue darted out and licked the blood from the corner of his lip. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a strawberry Blow Pop, unwrapped it, and put it in his mouth. Maneuvering the stick with his tongue, it stuck out the right side of his mouth. He smiled and walked out of the room.  
(Let the games begin.) 


	3. 

  
Thud. Thud. Thud.  
The rhythmic pounding of a lone fist into a punching bag echoed through empty gym in Crawford's office. Breathing, deep and controlled panted in accompaniment.   
Thud. Thud. Thud.  
Crawford danced about the bag on his bare feet. Right, left, right, left. His fists alternated, flashing through the air, striking the bag. His thoughts roiled and splashed about his head as he punched the bag.  
(Who the fuck does he think he is? My mind is my own, not his to trespass on. . .)  
Thud. Thud. Thud.  
Crawford began to duck and weave about the bag while jabbing at it. Soon, the jabbing gave way to uppercutting.  
Thud. Thud. Thud.  
(Those eyes. I can't get those eyes out of my head)  
Sweat started flying off of his body in a fine spray. The strikes became more and more erratic. His breath was ragged.  
Thudthudthud. Thudthud.  
(Those. . .)  
Thud.  
(beautiful. . .)  
Thud!  
(eyes. . .)  
"NO!"  
THUD!  
With the last jab, the battered punching bag fell from the ceiling. Crawford stood over it, collecting his breath, his thoughts. Sweat glistened on his bare torso. He walked over to his bag and put on his glasses, and with a savage motion, he gripped the tape on his hands between his teeth and started to wrench it off. The ringing of his cell phone buried in the bag startled him.  
He dug it out and put it to his ear. "Crawford speaking. . ."  
"Crawford, we need your team for a special assignment."  
Crawford smiled. Right on schedule. 


	4. 

  
The four members of Schwarz rode silently in Crawford's black BMW. The passing street lamps along the highway lit them in a sharp relief. Finally they came to a warehouse. They all got out of the car, and started walking towards the seemingly empty grey three story building. Crawford started to hesitate.  
Flashes of broken windows, and the smell of singed hair came to him. "Keep on your toes. Schuldig, anyone in there?"  
Schuldig tapped about the building mentally. "No one."  
"Okay, you go in first, Nagi you follow him. Farferello and I will keep watch out here."  
Schuldig grinned. "Come on, young man. We have work to do."  
Nagi nodded at him. The two walked in through the closed double doors.   
The whole place smelled of dust and unlived in space. Schuldig and Nagi split up, inspecting the whole room. Just boxes and rats.  
Reaching in his pocket Schuldig pulled out a Blow Pop. "Ugh."  
Nagi gave him a look of displeasure. "What?"  
"It's Sour Apple. . .I always take these out. I only eat strawberry. Oh well." The cocky smile reappeared. "Now, where were we, ah yes. Elimination."  
Nagi and Schuldig silently stalked every inch of the first floor for the targets. Nothing. Nagi floated up the stairs to the second floor. "Schuldig", he called from the landing. "I think you should come see this."  
Schuldig ran up the steps to be next to Nagi. As he looked over the landing he saw it; a large coffee table with a large box with a bow on it. Schuldig looked at Nagi. "Let's see what this is about."  
The two came to the box which was black with a silver ribbon. A card was attached with a string to top of the box. "Hmmmm. . .Let's see who was nice enough." Schuldig grasped the card between his index and forefinger and snapped the string a single quick upstroke of his wrist. . .  
Nagi felt the energy from the blast before the got big enough to engulf the room in fire and heat. He put up a shield around himself a Schuldig as the explosion blew them both towards the window behind them. Nagi's head cracked against the pane before he was tossed out on the wave of fire. That momentary lapse in concentration dissipated the shield around himself and Schuldig. For an instant Schuldig was immersed in an inferno. Nagi lost sight of him as Schuldig flew out the window, arched and started a downward descent towards the concrete below.  
"Schuldig!" Nagi regained his mindset and flew out the window, powered by his telekinesis. He scrambled out an grabbed for Schuldig's hand, but it was just out of his grasp. . .   
Crawford heard a loud booming sound, and watched as every window on the second floor of the warehouse light up, and then shatter. He watched as a figure in a singed white suit fly from one of the windows. It started downward, and fell.  
(He's falling too fast.)  
Crawford ran over, but it was too late. Schuldig hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. Crawford knelt down.   
Schuldig was in bad shape. One of his legs was folded under him at an odd angle. His arms were outstretched, his fingers twitching. His eyelids fluttered. He turned his head to Crawford and smiled.  
"Eh. . .I really fucked this one up didn't I. . ." Schuldig coughed raggedly. Blood splattered over his chest. "Oh shit. . .my favorite suit."  
Crawford looked him over. "Keep talking to me. . .I need you to keep talking until help arrives."  
Schuldig started to laugh. "And here, I thought you cared nothing about me."  
Crawford grimaced. "Stop that. Save your energy. And no, I do care nothing about you."  
Schuldig smirked. "I'll keep letting you think that." He whispered. Schuldig's eyes closed as he lost consciousness. 


	5. 

  
Bradley Crawford walked into his office. Tonight had been a total disaster. He sat heavily in the large black leather chair that sat behind his desk. He took his glasses off and tossed them angrily upon his desk, and buried his face in his hands. A knock at his office door made him start. He jerked his head up, wiped at his face and nervously ran a hand through his hair.   
"Come in!"  
The large mahogany door swung open to nothing but dark. Then part of the dark itself began to shift and move. Footsteps shuffled haltingly in the inky blackness, and as Crawford watched, the ebon mass started to take a shape.  
"Farferello. . .I would have thought that Nagi-" He closed his mouth like a trap. Of course Nagi couldn't have given him his meds and sent him to bed. Nagi was in intensive care at the hospital with Schuldig. He was being treated for extreme exhaustion. "Never mind. What is it that you want? Your drugs?"  
Farferello was now closer, completely in the circle of light cast by Crawford's desk lamp. He smiled. "Ach, man. Nothing like that. I jus' needed to talk to ye."  
Farferello's voice was rich and deeply accented in Irish. It was steady. He came to a halt in front of Crawford's desk. Stepping backwards a pace, he fell into the chair that faced Crawford. His one gold eye twinkled in the minimal light. Reaching into his sleeveless blue jacket, he pulled out a knife. The knife had a black leather hilt. The steel blade was decorated a Celtic knot. On the end of the hilt was dragon's claw, in the claw was a sphere made of opal.  
"Farferello, I don't have time to-"  
Farferello's finger went to his lips. "Shhhhh. . ." His hand flashed out and cut off the overhanging decoration of the arm of his chair. Cradling it in his palm, he began to whittle it. Brad watched him, his patience growing thin with the lunatic. "Far-"  
"Shhhhh!" Farferello's eyebrows wrinkled in impatience themselves. His hands continued to be busy with the knife and wood. He stopped and looked up at Crawford. His voice came in a hoarse whisper. "Can you hear it?"  
"Hear what? I don't hear anything."  
"Listen." Silence thickened in the room. The tick of the large grandfather clock shouted out in the noiselessness.  
"Can you hear it now, Crawford?"  
"Hear what?" Crawford was now whispering as well.  
"'E's cryin'. 'E's cryin' his heart out for ye, Crawford."  
Crawford straightened. His face was taut and pale. His lips pressed so tightly together they became a dark line. "That's enough." His voice came even and deadly. "Get the hell-"  
"Oh no, Crawford. At that, yer wrong. I know stuff, you don't think I do. I hear things. . ."  
Crawford just sat stock still.  
Farferello continued his whittling. His face became thoughtful. "He loves ye. And Crawford, if ye don't grab to that, he'll go away."  
A single tear ran down Crawford's face to the corner of his mouth. "I. . .I don't love him, Farferello."  
Farferello pounded the desk with his fist. The scarred fist opened and a wooden heart fell out. "Maybe one day, yer black heart will open, and let 'im in. But a warnin'. . .He won't be waitin' long."  
Placing the knife back in his jacket, Farferello stood up. He turned his back to Crawford and shuffled back out. Crawford watched as he was swallowed by the black velvet dark.  
A pair of brown eyes searched the room, for some meaning of what just happened. His eyes rested on the wooden heart Farferello whittled and left on his desk. Crawford's long fingers reached out. He held it in the palm of his hand.  
(How could he know?)  
Crawford touched the heart with an index finger, and very much to his surprise, it fell in two pieces, split by a clean knife cut through the middle. 


	6. 

  
Schuldig looked up at the hospital ceiling.  
(Damn, my leg itches.)  
His right leg was encased in a plaster cast, elevated in a harness. He was sitting an upright position. He picked at a frayed thread on the hospital gown. Luckily, they let him keep his lucky silk green boxers on, cause it was slightly chilly in the room. He stretched as much as he could.  
(Fuckin' hospital. . .Hate these places.)  
He found himself becoming addicted to "Divorce Court." At least the drugs they gave him, kept the pain away. Not to mention the voices. . .  
A nurse came in. "It's time for your sponge bath, Mr. Smith"  
(Damn alias, Crawford gave me sucks! Do I looks like a 'Smith'?)  
"Good." At least it would give him something to take away the boredom.  
"Just take off the gown's top part for me."  
Schuldig obliged, shivered as the gown pooled at his waist, his torso naked. "I hope the water is warm this time."  
The nurse smiled as she dipped the sponge in the water. She was about to start on his back when she noticed something. A semi-large tattoo on his right shoulder blade.   
It was of an angel, her wings were semi-folded and her hands were clasped in prayer. Long curling brown hair cascaded down her back, and a serene expression graced her face. Under it, in Chancery Italic hand was the word. . .  
"Guilty? Why guilty Mr. Smith?"  
Schuldig smiled a small sad smile. "Because innocence is a word I don't know the meaning of.". . . .  
  
Crawford arrived at the hospital to pick up Nagi. He was well enough to come home, but they insisted that Schuldig was to stay for more observation.  
"His leg was broken in three places, Mr. Crawford, we just want to make sure he'll be able to function without pain before we send him home.", the doctors told him.  
Crawford nodded. He wanted Schuldig as healthy as possible, before coming home. There will be no invalids in his household. "Can I at least see him?"  
The doctor nodded. "He might be asleep, but I see no reason why not."  
Crawford walked down the white hallways silently until he came to the German's door. He opened it silently.  
Schuldig was asleep. Moonlight streamed in the window on the far wall, illuminating everything in silver light. Crawford watched him sleep for several minutes; Schuldig's face was turned to the side, his mouth was gaped open. He snored lightly.  
Crawford smiled a crooked smile and placed something on the table beside the bed.  
"Now don't you ever tell me I never got you anything."  
He turned silently on his heel and walked out, closing the door quietly.  
Schuldig's snoring quieted, the breathing even, and the mouth closed. The German opened an eye and reached over on the table. He unwrapped the strawberry Blow-Pop, put it in his mouth, and closed his eyes. The lips around the stick smiled and mumbled quietly.  
"Thank you." 


	7. 

  
"Hey watch it! A hurt man would like to get to his car safely, ya know!"  
Schuldig rapped the passing orderly with his silver cane. It was time for him to come home, and Nagi was walking him to Crawford's BMW, which waited out front. Well, Nagi was walking, Schuldig was being wheeled in his wheelchair, and if anyone looked closely, they would notice that Schuldig was not wheeling the wheelchair, nor was Nagi, who walked beside it.  
Nagi kept his eyes to the floor, refusing to speak. Schuldig glanced at the young boy. "Hold on, Nagi. Stop."  
Nagi stopped, as did the wheelchair.  
"Nagi, look at me."  
Two pools of indigo swam in tears. "If. . .If I could have. . .Could you ever. . .I mean-"  
Schuldig held the boy's hand in his own. A tear fell on Schuldig's hand, hot and wet. "Nagi, I-"  
Nagi's shoulders heaved, and he collapsed, burying his head in the German's lap, sobbing. "It's all my fault! I should have protected you!"  
Schuldig ran a hand through the dark brown hair, comforting the boy. "It was my fault, Nagi, not yours. You did all you could."  
Nagi stood back, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, gathering himself under control. "You're. . .you're not mad."  
Schuldig waved it off. "Aw, hell no kid. Besides, if it weren't for you, I would have lost my hair or eyebrows. Then I would have to kill you."  
Nagi giggled. "Okay, then, we're even."  
Schuldig smiled crookedly, and felt his own eyes grow a bit damp. "Yeah, even." He said huskily. "Come on. Crawford's waiting."  
He held out his hand. Nagi took it, and they walked to the entrance and to Crawford's car.  
The ride back to the house silent. Crawford steered the car through the near empty streets.  
"So, Schuldig, did you get everything you needed from the hospital?", he asked looking at the German through the rear view mirror. He seemed lost in thought. "Schuldig?"  
"Huh?" Green eyes looked up from the window they were staring out of.  
"Did you get everything you needed from the hospital?" The eyebrows knitted in concern.  
"Oh. . .Oh yes, yes I did. By the way, I have these." He dug around in his pocket. "Ah, found them."  
He held up a small prescription bottle.  
"They're my morphine, for the pain."  
Crawford pulled into the driveway. That's no problem, just make sure you're completely done with them before come back to work."  
"No problem, Crawford."  
Nagi helped Schuldig out of the car and to his room. 


	8. 

  
Schuldig tossed and in his bed. He clutched the sweat soaked sheets in both fists and wringed them. His face contorted as he was thrown about in the grips of his nightmare.  
(The stock market was terrible-)  
( Our father who art in heaven hallo-)  
(I wish I could drive-)  
Schuldig's hands went to his head. It felt too full. Too many voices, thoughts, emotions. And on top of that, his leg started to throb. Tiny needles of flame shot through it. He sat up right, and fumbled for the bottle of morphine he kept in the drawer. He wrenched of the cap with his teeth, and popped five pills in his mouth and washed them down with a glass of water. The water sopped over most of his chest and the already sweat-drenched sheets. He flopped back down on his bed. The voices were fading now, as was the pain. There was a dull humming now, and it sounded soothing. . .  
(. . .uldig. . .)  
The voice. . .so far away. So transient.  
(Schu. . .)  
Now it was louder, more insistent more. . .external, even. It was ringing in his head as well as his ears now.  
"Schuldig!"  
Throbbing sound and voice rattled its way through Schuldig's brain, mind, and headspace. He cringed and buried himself deeper in his sheets.  
"Coming!" His own shouts sounded overkill and out of place. Schuldig cringed at his own voice. He swung his legs over the bedside and sat, with his face in his hands.  
(Damn, my head aches.)  
Schuldig opened his bedside drawer for the bottle. He popped three pills, swallowed them dry and sighed. He put what he hoped looked like an uncaring smile on his lips, and headed downstairs.  
The other three members of Schwarz were sitting at the kitchen table, each at various stages of eating breakfast. Nagi looked up as Schuldig came into the kitchen.  
"Good morning! Do you want me to make anything for you for breakfast?"  
Schuldig shook his head. "No. Just bring me a cup of coffee, eh?"  
Nagi nodded. The pot of coffee in the maker slid out on it's own accord and poured some of it's contents into a cup that jumped out of the cabinet. The cup floated to Schuldig who took it out of the air. "Thanks."  
"No problem." The young boy got up from his chair. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have to get to school." He finished his toast, and hefted his shoulder bag full of books over his shoulder. "I'll see you when I get back."  
Crawford looked over the newspaper he was reading. "Come straight home, Nagi."  
Nagi nodded, and floated to the door, opened it, and drifted out.  
Crawford watched the door after the boy had closed it. Then he shifted his gaze to Schuldig, who was still standing with the untouched cup of coffee in his hands. He seemed to be staring off into space.  
"Schuldig. . .Are you alright?"  
Schuldig turned to Crawford. "Hmmmm?"  
Crawford put the newspaper down and peered closely at Schuldig's face. "Did you hear a word I just said to you?"  
The German shrugged. "Na. I'm not feeling to well. I'm going to go back to bed. Besides, my knee's killing me. See ya!" And with that, Schuldig put the now cold cup of coffee on the table, and walked back up with the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.  
Crawford's eyebrows knitted in a combination of anger and worry.   
(That was strange, even for Schuldig. I hope he gets better soon, I really need him for the team.)  
Schuldig kept climbing rapidly until he reached the top of the stairs. Then he slowed, grasping his head with both hands. The throbbing wouldn't stop, it had to stop. He fell to his knees and crawled the remainder of the way to his bedroom. He opened the door of his bedroom and crawled in. He made his way to the bed, and crawled in between the sheets and curled into a fetal position. Silent tears rolled down his face, burning in his throat. The pain in his head started to diminish as the drugs finally started to kick in. His sobs subsided to small whimpers, and he fell into a deep sleep. 


	9. 

  
Mr. Bradley Crawford was in a quandary. It had been five months since Schuldig's accident, and the once cheeky and cheerful young man was a ghost of his former self. He now walked about in a cloud, seldom smiling. He doesn't eat much anymore, and the already lanky red head dropped over thirty pounds. He was quite painful to look at. He now walked about the house, shirtless, in just jeans, wandering from room to room. Quite often, he would be able to find him on the balcony, smoking cigarette after endless cigarette. Something was wrong. . . Dreadfully wrong. He could feel it in his heart, and it hurt.   
He gathered the papers and bills he was working on, and swept them into his briefcase. It was time to go home.  
Crawford walked into the house. It was cold, and unwelcoming. He could detect the smell of warmed-over coffee, old cigarettes, and lost thoughts.  
(Where are you Schuldig?)  
He climbed the stairs slowly, every sense open in the overpowering silence. The landing was dark. There was no light creeping under the cracks of the bedroom doors, no sounds of stereos, televisions, or harmless oaths at talk shows. It seemed that he could hear everything, yet nothing.   
(I know you can hear me! Answer dammit!)  
Crawford felt desperate and other feeling he wasn't used to. . .most call it worry or concern. He stopped dead in his tracks. He felt a brush, like a chill wind across his mind. The hair stood up on his arms.  
(Schuldig?)  
(. . .Craw. . .me. . .)  
It was him alright, but the voice in his head was no more than a whisper, and worse yet, the whisper faded in and out, like a radio loosing a frequency.  
(Where are you?)  
(. . .Crawfo. . .help. . .me)  
A premonition suddenly over took the precog's vision. Gone was the dark hallway. He could see the hospital again, himself visiting again. He could see the nurses desk, and hear himself ask the nurse on duty a question: "Where's the morgue?"  
His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he had to swallow several times. Quickly, he ran down the hall, opening door after door, still hearing Schuldig's faint voice blowing softly across his ears, mind, and heart.   
Finally, he came to the last bathroom, and flung open the door.  
Schuldig was sitting on the toilet. His thin arms were crossed on the sink beside the commode, and his head rested in them. His sides moved in and out slowly as he raggedly breathed. In the sink itself were a myriad of blue and white pills.  
"Schuldig?"  
The head raised slightly. Schuldig ran a hand through the tangled mass of flame. His movements were all slow. . .so slow, and sleepy. He wrinkled his face in a semblance of a smile.  
"You know something Crawford?. . ." The smile fell. "I try, and I try, and I try, but the voices come back louder than ever. And they hurt. I'm tired. . .So tired. . . "  
His strength gone, Schuldig slipped off the toliet, and would have fallen to the hard tile, if not for the two strong arms that appeared about his torso, and the hand that cradled his aching head.  
Schuldig chuckled. "And to think. . .I thought you didn't care." His head lolled to the side as he lost consciousness.  
Crawford looked down at the broken man whose head rested in his lap, his face in his hands. Crawford's fingers smoothed the mussed hair from the German's pale face.  
"Schuldig. . .I. . ." A salty tear fell from his chocolate brown eyes and onto Schuldig's face. "I'll help you in the only ways I can. The only ways I can."  
He took out the cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed 911. 


End file.
